The Backyard

It is a summer phenomenon that we’ve only just realized. Last summer, I was blissfully ignorant of the world outside our doors, for the most part. The Beans were just months old and still napped twice a day. When we did go out into the yard, they sat like blobs in their activity centers or they crawled around on blankets and beach towels, just barely creeping onto the grass. Not one for intense heat, I kept them (and myself) holed away in cool air-conditioned havens during the hottest of days.

But now. Now, the minute we arrive home, me from work and they from the grandmothers, the Beans rush to the gate to the back yard. “Backyard! Backyard!” they chant. Previous to the discovery that the backyard has a gate, they would mill around the door wall in the kitchen and repeat the same chant until I couldn’t take it anymore. They learned, “Too hot!” and “It’s raining,” were bad sentences and that “just a minute” wasn’t really measured in real time. They gaze longingly out the window, and stomp away, only to return a bit later to begin the call again. Now, the minute I set one on the driveway to get the other Bean out of her car seat, she dashes to the gate, grabs it and peers through to her treasured space. “Backyard!” she shouts over her shoulder to her sister, meaning “Hurry! Let’s go!”

One of the things that sold me on our current house is the backyard. It’s just as I imagined it when we moved in on a cold December day. It is big, for a subdivision home, and open and it was empty and ready to be filled with toys and playthings. In one corner, there is a swing set, already conquered by the Beans this summer. At the other corner sits a sandbox, which was regretfully installed by Momma Bean, but which is cherished by the Beans as they bathe each other in the stuff in what I think is their passive aggressive way to ensure that they will be treated with their beloved Bath Time afterward. In between and all around are things of the Beans scattered where they were last played with: shovels, tricycles, a bottle of bubbles.

They love it! They roll on the grass. They chase the dogs. They kick the pink ball that it almost as tall as they are. They water the flowers. They flirt with Old John, next door, who brought them a tiny bunny to see just the other day. They stand at the fence, patient and gazing at the ripening grapes, in the hopes that Marietta will pluck a bunch for their greedy little hands.

When I make the unwelcome announcement that it is time to go inside, they band together like thieves and run around the yard, daring me to catch them. I catch one, out of breath and feeling my age, and am cajoled into swinging her into the air. Meanwhile, the other jumps at my feet, waiting for her turn to be thrown into the sky. Finally, we call the dogs and march into the house, happily tired to our bones from our day out in the yard.